Lineage: Shared Blood
by Clopin K. Trouillefou
Summary: A mysterious Count comes to Paris to keep tabs on a certain ghost, but plans change when tragedy strikes and said ghost vanishes. Now the stranger must journey into the depths of the Opera, but will he be too late?
1. The Count

His feet slapped the ground soundlessly as he raced toward the Opera House; something wasn't right, there was no doubt of it. With his enhanced and acute hearing, he had heard the panicked crowd rushing from the Opera. He had no idea what was going on, but it wasn't good and he had to find out what it was. He hurried to get there before the authorities did, sometimes using the street, sometimes leaping to the rooftops. Among the panicked throng he found his contact: the ballet mistress, Madame Giry. Putting a hand over her mouth to prevent her from screaming, he pulled her into a dark alley.

"_Monsieur_!" she gasped, when he released her.

"What is going on, Mme. Giry?" he demanded.

Fluent with the most romantic of tongues though he was, he could not hide his heavily accented French.

"The Opera Ghost!" she explained, looking worried, "He- he killed Signor Piangi and stole Christine Daae from the stage! A mob is hunting him down as we speak! I sent _le vicomte_ de Chagny to save Christine, but the mob will kill the Ghost!"

She was worried, afraid for the Opera Ghost's life; she had known him from years previous and was his trusted friend and confidante.

He turned, ready to rush down to the Phantom's lair, but Mme. Giry grabbed hold of his arm.

"Please, _monsieur_," she pleaded, "Do not go down there! They would kill you too! And I am confident the Ghost will find an escape. Please…"

He turned to look toward the Opera, fearful for the life of the Phantom, but he knew she was half-right. They would try to kill him, but realize they couldn't; he couldn't risk them discovering the truth. He grasped her shoulders, pulling her close till their noses all but touched.

"Listen to me," he whispered, "You will keep me informed, keep me posted on all that occurs. _Comprennez-vous_?"

The ballet mistress nodded, and he took off at such a speed, he virtually disappeared. Once out of sight, he took to the rooftops and climbed to Apollo's Lyre, allowing him a view of the whole of Paris, and from there he watched, until the sky became an array of colors by the rising sun. He departed, taking to the air, and headed toward the townhouse he'd taken, landing on the balcony of his bedchamber. He then drew the curtains and prepared to spend the day in sleep.

Two weeks ticked by, the only news being the sudden disappearance of the Opera Ghost. The next fourteen days passed without incident, leaving La Carlotta to retake her reign of terror on the stage. The managers had half-expected to hear the Phantom's complaints, but there was nothing, much to their surprise. And so time passed without word or sign from their uninvited guest, and people ceased to expect any. All relaxed and returned to their lives, reveling in the discontinued haunts… all except the ballet mistress. Madame Giry remained alert, fretting over the Ghost's silence, sudden and inexplicable as it was. No one had found any trace of him that night, sending the managers in hysterics, however they had set up a 24-hour police watch. Yet the entire staff of the Opera was apprehensive of the ballet mistress's unease. There seemed no plausible cause of her agitation, but no one even thought that she was ally to the Ghost. None offered the continued silence and absence of the Phantom as a reason for her chagrin.

As the second week of the Ghost's absence came to a close and the third was dawning, Madame Giry delivered a note to her foreign contact. She knocked upon the door of his temporary residence; it was about noon, the sun shone bright. A butler, the only servant in the foreigner's employment, opened the door.

"_Oui_, _Madame_?" he queried.

"I wish to speak with His Excellency," Mme. Giry stated.

"I am afraid he is predisposed," he responded.

"_S'il vous plait_, _monsieur_," she begged, "It is urgent that I speak with him immediately!"

"Very well, _Madame_," the man sighed, stepping aside to allow her entrance, "_Entrez-vous_. I will show you in."

He led her to the study, then took his leave to fetch his master. The walls were lined with huge shelves, containing an immense number of books, a desk stood at the back of the room in front of a pair of French doors leading onto a large balcony. She was startled from her awe by the sound of the large double doors opening behind her. The master of the house entered in a dressing gown of deep blood red velvet, covering a yawn with the back of his hand.

"What is so urgent," he asked, sitting in a large armchair next to the fireplace off to one side of the room, "that you had to see me immediately?"

"Excellency," Mme. Giry made a curt bow in greeting, "I must speak with you."

"So I understand," he covered another yawn, and motioned to a chair facing his own.

"_Merci_," the older woman took the proffered seat, "Did you not wish for me to keep you informed of the Opera Ghost's activities?"

"Yes, of course," he affirmed, sitting up, his attention piqued.

"In this case, rather, the lack thereof."

"What do you mean?"

"All has been calm and silent the past two weeks."

"Since that night?"

"Yes, there has been nothing. No notes, no threats, no incidents, nothing but absolute silence. There has been neither sign nor word from the Ghost."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing at all. He has vanished… and I fear the worst."

The ballet mistress's contact sighed, covering his face with his hands, then ran them through his long disheveled hair.

"I will go to the opera tonight…" he began.

"Tonight?" she interrupted, "Can you come no sooner?"

"…_Tonight_… and I will descend to his labyrinth and see if I can't find any sign of him. Is that clear?"

"_Oui_, Excellency." Bowing, the ballet mistress saw herself out, quite confused by the Count's reluctance to go out in daylight.

The Transylvanian Count paced in his study, mystified; the Ghost was missing, hadn't been seen or heard from for nearing three weeks. Something was not right… he stopped, sighing; he would see to it tonight. He wished he could go now; sunlight would not kill him, as he had always believed. It was force of more than two hundred years' habit that kept him indoors, out of the sunlight. Old habits die hard, after all, and night was his world, his kingdom where he was master, while mortal man slept in ignorant bliss. He sat in the large armchair before the fire, as exhaustion set in, his eyes growing heavy. The day was not done, hours remained before he could reclaim his realm, and sleep was demanding his attention…


	2. Rebirth

Night fell, releasing the foreign Count from a restless sleep and freeing him of the day. After dressing, he took off into the night, taking to foot at first so that he might hunt. He satiated his thirst on a would-be murderer who had targeted him for a potential robbery. However, his prey put up a fight, causing much unnecessary noise, and attracted unwanted attention, leaving the Count to the rooftops and skies after his feeding. Upon reaching the Opera, he found it brightly lit, much to his displeasure; he had forgotten there was an opera this night. His intent had been to attend, but that had changed when he spoke with the ballet mistress. He was far too anxious to wait through an opera to the end until he had the opportunity to journey five stories into the Opera's belly. He turned down the Rue Scribe, easily breaking the lock blocking his entrance, and began his trek.

The Phantom's lair had been ransacked, more than likely by the bloodthirsty mob nearly three weeks prior. Furniture had been overturned, sheets of music lay scattered and torn all over the place, yet there seemed to be no irreparable damage done. He searched, visually and mentally, for signs of life, but none came; even with his preternatural sight and hearing, he heard and saw nothing. He drew near to the ornate throne to sit down and try to think, but as he did so, he heard it. The faint sound of a beating heart, slow and sporadic, and it seemed to come from the area of the chair. Yet, when he thoroughly searched, there was nothing and, giving up with no idea what to do, the Count collapsed into the chair. He put a hand to his head, the beating beginning to annoy him, and gripped the side of the arm with the other. His closed eyes snapped open as his fingers came across a bump, a knot of some sort. Quickly he rose, his black cloak swirling around him, and knelt to investigate it, and experimentally pushed it. He looked up as the cushion of the seat opened to reveal a hidden compartment.

With the niche revealed, the heartbeat grew louder in the noble's sensitive ears, and his breathing coming rapidly in anticipation, he rose and gasped as his eyes fell upon what he had uncovered. There lay a still body, curled up in a fetal position, the chest rising ever so slightly a mortal would never have seen it in shallow, quick breathing. He knelt in front of the armchair, tilting the figure's head so he could see exactly who it was. He nodded grimly, his suspicions as to whom it was he beheld confirmed: the Phantom of the Opera. Reaching in, he took the shrunken, starved body in his arms, and rose, looking hurriedly for a place to lay the near-dead form. He knew the being in his arms was slipping away, a victim of thirst and hunger. A door stood closed beside the huge pipe organ taking up a corner of the Ghost's lair, presumably a bedroom. The nobleman slowly opened the door, revealing a large bed in the center of the room, a coffin pushed to a dark corner.

The intruder to the Phantom's private hell explored the bedroom, opening a door that lay hidden in the shadows beside the coffin. Opening it showed a large, luxurious bathroom of white marble, a deep marble bath in the center. Upon inspection he found soap, shampoo, among luxuries necessary for bathing. He began to draw a bath, finding the room completed with cold and hot running water. He lay the still Ghost on the marbled floor, then shut off the water, and retrieved a few towels. Undressing him, the Count disposed of the soiled clothing, and gently set him in the warm water. He set about washing the unresponsive man, thoroughly massaging his scalp and cleansing the long wavy raven tresses. The uninvited guest carefully shaved the Ghost's face, skillfully avoiding cutting the already ruined right side of his face while shearing every bit of stubble.

The Count placed a damp cloth on the brow of the unmoving form that lay in the bed beneath a velvet comforter of blood red. He took up a cup of cold water from the lake and held it to the inert being's lips, which opened allowing the much-needed liquid to pass down his throat. Replacing it, he sat on the edge of the bed, studying the still figure on the bed beside him. The Ghost was quite tall, about as tall as the Count, easily over six feet, and, in full health, his body would be lean with proportionate breadth of shoulder and chest. He would've been well muscled, though lithe and elegant, but his body seemed small now, his bones defined beneath the alabaster skin. The flesh was dry especially where the salt of tears had left their tracks, his body devoid of fluids. Sighing, the highborn Count folded his hands, contemplating what he meant to do. He was a child of the night and had intended to offer this accursed gift to the Phantom, but now…

It was obvious to him by the breathing and heartbeat that the former menace would never wake. But did he dare to bless him with this curse without the receiver's acceptance of it? The Count knew several reasons and temptations to offer the Ghost which may bring him around, but he knew that he may never be forgiven if he gave his gift without the man's willingness. Yet it was his only chance at life, he would die otherwise… so what was the Count to do? Again a sigh issued past the thick sensual lips of the grandee; he knew what he had to do, that he'd rather lose the motionless figure's forgiveness than his life. With all the tenderness of father to child, he cradled the Ghost in his arms, his cold fingers running over the bare chest up to the neck. He bent his head down, his fingers seeking out the jugular, which would offer the most blood in a small amount of time.

"Forgive me for what I'm about to do, Erik," he muttered against the figure's neck, uttering the Phantom's name, "It's for your own good."

The Count opened his mouth wide, a hissing breath exhaled, and plunged his long gleaming white fangs into the neck of his victim, the sharp blades sinking into the tender flesh. The thick red blood came fast, filling his mouth as he drank greedily, savoring the taste, the act bringing him to ecstasy. He withdrew reluctantly just before the already weak heart stopped, and, bringing his wrist to his mouth, sliced his own flesh with a fang. He touched it to the Ghost's slightly parted lips, pressing the figure's mouth to it and purred with pleasure, tilting his head back, eyes closed, as he felt the lips close around the wound, drinking deeply. A hand weakly clutched the Count's arm, pulling it closer and sucking more deeply, taking in the blood voraciously.

"Enough," the Count growled, pulling his arm away as the comatose Phantom fell back.

As his body hit the soft feather pillow, the Opera Ghost was gasping for breath; his brow knit as pain flowed through his body. He writhed violently, turning onto his side and curling up, moans and howls of agony escaping his thick, malformed lips. The Count stood back, aware of what was happening, recalling his own transformation more than two hundred years ago.

Gradually the pain subsided, leaving the spectre's chest heaving from the strain on his starved body. Again, the Count bit into the neck wound to satiate his own thirst and regain the strength he lost. And again allowed the Ghost to feed from him, a process which strengthened not only their bond but also the receiver. Gently, the Count laid the deformed being on the bed, willing him to sleep…


	3. Rejuvenated

The foreign dignitary let out a deep, relaxed sigh as he sank into the warm, soapy water in the bath. He let himself soak, savoring the hot liquid against his cold, undead skin. He closed his eyes, a content purr escaping his lips, his eyes growing heavy as day dawned over the streets above. Hours later, in the unseen skies outside the Opera, the sun was setting when the Count roused from his diurnal slumber. The water was still warm against his flesh due to a heating device of some sort beneath the floor of the bath. Having cleansed his body, he rose from the pool, throwing his head back and sending his long silvery, greyish white hair flowing behind him, the water glistening in all directions. Outside, the figure in the large bed woke from his deep slumber, moaning, his eyes fluttering open. As he gazed around, he became aware of his rising chest and his still beating heart. He sat up in displeased panic at the obvious fact that he was not dead, dry sobs wracking his starved body as he buried his face in his hands.

As his sobs subsided, the Phantom's mind cleared and he became alarmed as he realized he was not in the secret niche of his chair. He became aware of his nude body beneath the comforter as he grasped the smooth velvet to his bare breast. It suddenly occurred to him that someone had to have undressed and put him there. He ran his hands over his now smooth skin, then tugged at his raven hair, finding it clean and silky. What was going on? He took note of his mask lying on his bedside table, subconsciously lifting a hand to his right cheek, feeling the scars and folds of his deformities. Yet unaware of his enhanced senses, the Ghost recognized the sounds of someone in his bathroom. His quick, violent temper swiftly rose to the surface at the knowledge that there was an intruder in his black despair. A figure emerged, the Opera Ghost climbing from his bed, keeping the comforter wrapped around his naked body. As the intruder came out, the Phantom lifted a hand to his head, a head rush making the room spin and leaving him feeling light-headed and dizzy. The Count stared at him in concern at the sight of the weak man standing beside the bed.

The dignitary approached and the sickly phantasm retreated a few steps involuntarily.

"You should not be up," he commented, coming forward.

"What business is it of yours?" the retreating figure growled, his voice strained.

"Erik…" the trespasser began.

"How do you know my name?" he gasped.

The aristocrat sighed, "I'm going out on a hunt, please rest and take it easy. You are still very weak from lack of food and water for nearly three weeks. I will return as soon as I have completed my search. At that time I will explain everything. It would be best for you to repose longer before I return. I will bring you some food as well."

It was an hour or so before the Count came back, the Phantom in that time turning the lights and heat on. A fire was lit and he was standing before the hearth, still wrapped only in the coverlet, the effort on his unhealthy form obvious. The patrician sighed and approached, an unconscious body thrown over his shoulder. He cast the being onto the floor a mere foot or so behind the figure in front of the warm, inviting blaze. The Phantom, Erik, turned to face the mysterious noble, somewhat startled at the thud the body made as it hit the floor.

"I told you," he warned, "You should not be up and about, not in your condition. I wish you'd remained in bed."

"I asked you before," Erik returned, in annoyed calm, "What concern is it of yours?"

"Feed," the Count commanded, "and we shall talk."

"Feed? What do you mean?"

"Have you noticed none of your new form?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Take a moment and realize what has overtaken you."

Erik cast him a suspicious glare, obeying, and closed his eyes, suddenly mindful of his newly overwhelmed senses, the scent of fresh, warm blood filling his nostrils. He became increasingly aroused, feeling a strange and intense thirst, listening to the beat of the figure the nobleman had brought. He ran his tongue along his newly elongated canines, cutting his tongue on the sharp points.

The taste of blood filled Erik's mouth, serving to intensify his extreme hunger, a hiss escaping his open mouth. Without warning, he leapt upon the still body, the quilt slipping from his shoulders, taking it into his arms and sank his newly acquired sabre-teeth into the soft flesh of the neck, penetrating the main artery. The taste of the life-blood filled his mouth, the flavor different from what he would have sensed as a human. He drank deeply, savoring the sensations and pleasure it afforded, lost in the moment.

"That is enough," the voice of his strange companion interrupted his task, "You must not drink beyond the ceasing of the heart, lest you be brought into eternal slumber with it."

Erik reluctantly drew back, feeling the warm fluid flow through his body, his shrunken body strengthening, his muscles and form regaining their mass starvation had destroyed. His fangs grew longer, an intense power lying deep within his being; he felt good, very good, reborn and rejuvenated, healthier than he had felt for the last year or so. His undead heart beat in newfound strength as though it had never been ill.

"How do you feel?" the lord queried.

"Good… very good," came the low reply, then took on a tone of despair, "What have you done? What am I? What have you done to me!"

"I have blessed you with my cursed gift," the stranger answered, sighing, "the gift of immortality."

The Phantom stared at his hands, "Immortality? I do not want this!"

"I made you what you are," the unwelcome visitor said, "So can I unmake you."

He leapt to his feet, seemingly oblivious to the bedspread falling away from him to the floor, "Then do so!"

"Do you truly want that?"

"I have been awaiting death for many years! I tire of this damned existence!"

"Why do you wish for me to undo what I have done?"

"Would you spend eternity with _this_!" he motioned to his face, "You would curse me with this face for infinity!"

"Did it never occur to you that science could become advanced enough to repair your deformities? That medical science could come to such progress in the near future?"

"A fair point but hardly enough to move me."

"Think of the revenge you could obtain. To outlive those who sought to destroy you, perhaps extract even more satisfying revenge."

"To have vengeance…"

"You are possessed of unimaginable strength, your heart as though you'd never been ill. You have obtained incredible power, supernatural abilities, and you will only grow stronger. Think of your music, your architecture, what you could accomplish…"

"It gives me more than I could ever dream, but not what I want more than anything…"

"Ah, yes love. Think, Erik: you now have all eternity to find it. Surely there will come someone who will willingly look beyond your appearance to the soul within. Someone who will truly and deeply love you for who you are. Already you are a child of the night, complete it," a deep sigh, "For all its advantages, this new form does come at a high cost."

"Which is, though I believe I know the answer…"

"You must kill others to sustain your own existence."

"What are you that you have made me?"

"We are now one, my dear Erik, we are children of the night. We are vampires."

"You fed upon me? You stole my life's blood from me!"

"There is more to it than that, Erik! In order to become one of us, you must partake of the Dark Blood. I shared with you my blood to save you. Hate me if you must, but I wish for you to choose life over death. I've no desire to destroy you."

A deep sigh, "You have made a rather tempting offer even for me. But I am so tired."

"I will teach you all that I know, I will teach you everything. Then and only then will I allow you to sleep for twice the length of your mortal life, perhaps longer, until the time comes."

"Keep your end and I will choose this immortal life."

"The cost is high…"

"What difference does it make to me? Man has only brought misery; they deserve what I must bring to them. I have spent my life killing, so it is no stranger to me. I am immune to its horrors. As for a hatred of you, tell me who you are and then we shall see."

"Then allow me to introduce myself…"


End file.
